


When Death Comes

by kedavranox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Gore, Depression, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Manipulation, Self-Mutilation, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-25 15:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14381280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedavranox/pseuds/kedavranox
Summary: There is little you can do to live when Death wants you all for his own...





	When Death Comes

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
>  **Warnings (Highlight to view)** :*Graphic depictions of a suicide attempt, blood, gore. *  
>  **Author Notes** : What a nostalgic pleasure it's been writing for Horrorfest! Thank you for the wonderfully generous mods who always make me feel welcome to dip my toe in fandom again! Thank you to my betas timothysboxers & PalenDrome for making this fic readable to the masses. Any mistakes remaining are completely my own. 5 points to Gryffindor if you can spot the reference to my favourite tragic H/D fics in the fandom.

 

**Part I**

 

The need to possess him is unbearable.

_(For when had he ever needed anything?)_

The universe had given him all he had ever desired. She had given him power. She had given him purpose—to separate the others from the place before the veil and the place beyond. She had given him fear—the world was afraid of him, and yet had still, somehow always accepted him as inevitable.

They named him Death.

This confuses him as almost all human things do—for Death implies an end when there is only transition—some might say _elevation_. But he had never tried to understand the human world. There is no point to it. Humans have never possessed his interest.

Until now.

This one is special. He is _powerful._ (How could he be human at all?)

They call him Harry.

He often wonders why. The name seems too small, too ordinary, too useless. That name could never encapsulate the breadth of him—of _Harry_.

He had tried many times to take Harry beyond the veil to _touch_ him properly at last ( _touching_ Harry…what a strange, burning thought) but always, some force would prevent him.

It wasn’t the Universe, she wouldn’t interfere this way. She had, for the most part, let him take who he wanted whenever he was so inclined.

No, this force was strange, and powerful, and possessive, and… _maternal_? Fierce. Unrelenting. He had let it be, moving on to take others when he felt like it; filling his time with trivial things. Trivial, unremarkable people.

But he almost always returned to his wanting.

Of Harry. Only ever Harry.

As Harry continued his existence in the place before the veil, the place where time could touch him (and oh, how it burned that Time could touch him so intimately, and yet _he_ could not) his need and desire not only persisted.

It became _more_.

It would not be enough to simply take Harry beyond the veil—he could do that with anyone—his foremost desire is to possess him, to consume him, to… _protect_ him?

Strange.

He does not yet understand these competing desires. They spring unbound to his consciousness in thoughts not yet fully formed, so that he has to ask himself what it means, and he does not always find the answer.

He wants to…feel Harry? _Yes_ . (What was feeling anyway?) He wants to…taste him? _Yes_ . To become part of him? _Yes_.

Become him?

He does not know.

It confuses him, this not-knowing.

This desire to know.

Harry’s physical body—his pale, beautiful skin (why should he notice Harry’s skin?) mesmerizes him. The fall of Harry’s hair…beguiles him? _Yes._ The curve of Harry’s mouth… invites him? _Yes._ Lures him? _Yes._ Compels him? _Yes._ Frightens him? _Perhaps?_ (But what need did he have to fear anything?)

He watches Harry constantly. He observes as much of Harry’s skin as he can. Harry’s skin is sensitive. He had watched Harry with other men, with the one man—the one Harry always returns to—many times before. He could fill his days with watching. But there is a special one, the one who (like him) marvels at Harry’s skin, and how it pinks when Harry is aroused. How it slicks with sweat when the other thrusts into him in the strange way humans sometimes do.

He had never had the urge to learn more about what human bodies did together until now. What the special one does to Harry’s body again and again. What _he_ wishes he could do to Harry’s body again and again.

There is something inside Harry that he feels he should possess.

Devour? _Yes._

Worship? _Yes._

He is not sure what to do with the shape of _these_ particular thoughts. This urge is alien. It feels too human, too weak and impermanent to remain in this constant state of yearning.

Why should he have these...desires?

He has flesh, like Harry does, but his flesh is malleable. He can take the shape the Universe had given him—a very bland and indecipherable one, his hair the colour of freshly wet mud and eyes the colour of eggshells. Or he could create a shape of himself that only exists for _him_. He prefers this face. It is soft and young and full. He wears it often.

He wonders what Harry will make of it.

 

**Part II**

 

Harry slides his leaden thighs from beneath cold sheets, swings his feet off the plush mattress and rises from bed much in the same, lumbering fashion he had risen the day before.

And the day before that.

He studiously avoids looking across to the empty space beside him. In fact, he avoids looking at the entire half of the bedroom that had once been Draco’s—the side table he had left untouched, the stack of pillows on the mattress Harry had left in its place, the wardrobe that still held some of Draco’s things—all the places Draco should be. Where Draco _had_ been.

Where Draco hasn’t been for the past 120 days.

As Harry predicted ( _expected? anticipated?_ ) and more than likely had singularly caused; Draco was very much gone.

Thus began day 121. Tomorrow would be day 122, and then day 123, and so it will continue until Harry learns to no longer measure time in terms of Draco’s absence. Until he learns to no longer consider his life in two separate and distinct eras: b _efore Draco_ and _after Draco._

It’s not a lesson he thinks will come easily. In fact, in this moment, it seems impossible.

He shuffles down the hallway, trying to ignore the loudness of Draco’s absence. To pretend he cannot hear it in between the sound of his footsteps.

No longer are Draco’s dragon-hide boots at the top of the stairs to the cellar. Draco’s outrageously expensive robes are not hanging from the hook by the doorway. Draco’s pocket watch is not in the bowl Harry wedged beside the sugar tin for exactly that purpose, so that when Draco would make his undrinkably-sweet tea in the morning, he would remember to take it to work.

The not-there-ness of these things is what torments him. Draco had tattooed his presence onto the walls _—_ which should have been impossible. They had only shared this home for less than a year.

Eight months.

Not much time after all—only a snap of the fingers, a heartbeat cut short. One could measure it in shots of Firewhisky.

According to Draco, that was all Harry did.

But Firewhisky isn’t his drink anymore. These days, he prefers lighter, less pungent, colourless liquor (easier to hide? easier to pretend?)

_‘It’s like your life revolves around that bloody glass in your hand, Harry. You’re—’ Draco pauses, as if searching for words, ‘—you act like you won’t get through the day without it. Can’t you stop?’_

Why Draco could not understand the only thing Harry actually physically _needs_ to get through the day is Draco himself, he’d never know.

Didn’t I tell him? Harry wonders. Didn’t I tell him enough?

Didn’t I tell him at all?

_‘I need you.’_

_‘No more than you need_ it _.’_

Harry pours himself a gin because if the person he needs most could so easily exit his life, then what was the point?

_'That’s not why I’m leaving, Harry.'_

Harry knocks the drink back. Pours himself another. Adds some sparkling water for fizz. Grabs a banana while he’s at it to make himself feel marginally less pathetic.

 _'Why are you leaving me?'_ _Count to ten. Remain calm, detached. Don’t reach out to him. Don’t beg. Oh fuck, don’t beg. Hold your tongue. Now, ask him again._ _'Why are you leaving, Draco?'_

_'Because I think—' Draco stops. He runs his hands through his hair—his too long, too soft, too beautiful hair._

Everything about him is too beautiful for Harry. His eyes. His delicate mouth.

He remembers the feel of Draco’s lips against the skin at the nape of his neck. The breath that often shaped his name in a plea.

 _Harry_.

_‘We’re not in the same place right now. You know we aren’t.’ Draco rubs his eyes, scratches his temple, avoids Harry’s gaze, takes two steps further away. ‘This isn’t fair to either of us. You don’t love me the way I—’_

_‘I don’t?’_

_Harry says this lightly. Casually. The tone one might use over some small confusion with a take-away order. The way one might ask someone to politely repeat themselves, because something had been misheard._

_Misunderstood._

_Draco flushes. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Summons his bags. Kisses Harry hard on the mouth. Turns and leaves._

Didn’t I tell him? Harry wonders now. Didn’t he know?

He eats half of the banana. Throws the rest away. Pours himself another glass, because what else has he got to do today? He concocts a vague sort of to-do list in his mind, one that involves returning to bed, a bottle of the very same gin he had been enjoying for breakfast, sleep and possibly an uninspired wank, but there is a strange sound at his front door and Harry realises—with a delayed sort of jolt—that there’s someone knocking outside. Someone who doesn’t have access to his Floo. Draco perhaps? Harry had taken him off the wards exactly 120 days ago.

Usually Harry would ignore someone knocking—it’s more than likely a Muggle with the wrong address or items to sell or post or some manner of thing he has no interest in—but something urges him

—no—

something _compels_ him to move forward. To answer the door. To let the strange man he’s never seen once in his life past his front step without a word of question. To lock the door behind him. To close the Floo. To lead him to the kitchen. To pour him a drink. To sit with him at the table and say—

“I think I’ve been expecting you.”

 

**Part III**

 

He had heard Harry speak before—of course he had—but he had never before heard it directed at _him_. Never before felt the energy that was distinctly Harry’s aimed in his direction.

It is… unaccountably exhilarating to finally _be_ with him… with _Harry_ —whose eyes are red tinged and bloodshot, whose lips are pink and rough from having been chewed relentlessly, whose facial hair has grown beyond respectable lengths.

Harry’s chest is firm, the thin shirt on his back doing little to hide the strength beneath.

He feels a sharp and unyielding urge to touch Harry. To trace his hands down the length of Harry’s sternum. To learn the power in Harry’s solid thighs.

Harry doesn’t seem to blink even once; the lines in the corners of his eyes are deep and vivid, the dark circles beneath a stark reminder that he had chosen the perfect time to take Harry for his own.

“You are depressed,” he says.

Harry finally blinks. He moves slowly, as though coming up from a great depth to sneak a breath of air.

“Am I?”

“Oh yes. Very. I can see it just here. Settled in your brain. Like fine black dust.” A tear slides down Harry's cheek and he very gently wipes it away. “Did you not know?”

“I’m sorry. I sometimes seem to have this effect on people.”

He reaches out to wipe another tear that tracks down the swell of Harry’s cheek, and then he tastes it. It’s salty-sweet and redolent of _Harry_ and further ignites his urge to devour Harry entirely.

“What have you done to me?” Harry whispers. “ _Why can’t I move from this fucking chair_ ”?

“I’m very sorry about that. I know what you’re like, so I’ve exerted just a little Influence on you. To keep us both safe.”

“Safe from what?”

He presses his palms flat on the table, trying to briefly quell the itch of wanting. “May I touch you again?”

Harry stiffens, his mouth drops. “No, you may not touch me again.”

“Again, I apologise,” he says. “I may have to… _overlook_ your requests on this matter.”

He leans forward and traces the tip of his finger across the plush softness of Harry’s lips. Harry flinches, but otherwise is unable to move away.

He had often feared that in all his time of wanting that the reality of this moment, of Harry, of his skin, would be a disappointment. He realises now that it would have been impossible to over-expect anything of the man before him. Harry is everything.

Touching Harry’s skin rises a stirring within him that borders on euphoria. It is… _ecstatic_. It is raw and unyielding. He never wants to feel anything less ever again.

Harry’s eyes, that bright, mesmerising shade of green, are now wide with fright and confusion. Harry’s cheeks are flushed, his expression vacillating between fear, and curiosity. His eyes are slightly glazed, slightly unfocused…

“You’ve been drinking.”

Harry’s gaze hardens, but he doesn’t say anything to deny it.

“You do that far too often, Harry. Draco worries about you.”

“ _Don’t_ fucking talk about him.”

He tilts his head, studying the spitfire spike of energy in Harry’s aura shining like a beacon around him.

“I seem familiar to you, yes? Like an old friend? I made that Cloak you carry around still. I’ve been wrapped around you your whole life.”

Harry's gaze anxiously flits over his face, seemingly taking an account of his person before he asks, “Am I dying?”

“No," he smiles and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table before him. "But, you want to be. I want you to be.”

"Who are you?"

“What if you call me… Jude. I like this name. I’ve used it before.”

Harry says nothing, and Jude smiles gently at him.“You call me Jude. And I’ll call you Harry.”

“What else would you call me?” Harry whispers, his voice rough. Another tear rolls down his cheek.

“I would like to call you mine.”

Harry makes a small sound and his gaze flicks briefly to the door and back. “If you would stop what you’re doing. To my body— I won’t go anywhere. Just… release me, please. Let me move. I hate— I don’t like being restrained.”

Jude sighs. “I know you don’t. It reminds you of things you’d rather forget. Of your old friend, Voldemort.”

Jude releases a fraction of his hold, and Harry takes a deep breath.

“He was a foolish one, wasn’t he? Trying to take you the way he did. The Universe would have never allowed it.”

Hary wipes his face with both palms. “Why can’t I stop crying?”

“Your body is preparing itself to…” Jude gestures vaguely. “Receive me."

“So, I _am_ going to die today.” He doesn’t phrase it like a question. Jude appreciates this. He is grateful that Harry knows that their joining is an inevitability.

Harry rolls his shoulders. “I need a drink.”

He pulls his wand from his sleeve and Jude tenses, but Harry only Summons a bottle of liquor and a glass, pours himself a generous serving, and chugs it in two gulps.

“Tell me why?” he says without looking up from the table.

Jude studies Harry for a moment. “Come closer to me.”

Harry pours himself another drink, but he does not move.

“Harry, please. I can easily make you. I’m doing you the courtesy of letting you think you have a choice.”

Harry takes a much smaller swallow of his drink, and when he sets the glass down, his fingers twitch reflexively.

Jude knows he is thinking of going for his wand.

“It would be useless to try. I promise you.”

Squaring his shoulders, Harry pushes his chair around the edge of the small breakfast table and moves only very slightly closer. Jude smiles and pushes his own chair back, then forward, angling himself to face Harry. He grabs the legs of Harry’s chair and pulls him further forward so that they sit facing each other, knee to knee.

Harry stares at him, his expression a mix of almost loathing. Of despair. And strangely, the anguished expression of deepest regret.

“You think of him even now,” Jude says, surprised. “Knowing you’re going to die. He’s still on your mind?”

“Don’t do this. Please.” Harry’s voice breaks, just a little. It’s a beautiful, delicious sound. “I want to stay.”

“That shirt you’re wearing. Please remove it.”

Harry stills. “Don’t…”

“Now, Harry.”

Harry stiffly pulls his shirt over his head, his hair even more a riot when he tosses it aside and sits rigid and fierce, his shoulders heaving. Tears fall from his face, landing on his chest. Jude watches in fascination as the wet spot grows, and then reaches out, lets his palm ghost over muscle and bone, as Harry takes in ragged harsh breaths and weeps.

He squares his gaze with Harry and with only a thought, gently peels away a very thin layer of Harry’s sanity. Only enough to shatter a small piece of his mind. A fraction, really. A sliver. Just enough to make him easy to break. It falls away like a worn piece of wood, it crumbles like sand.

“Your sadness,” Jude whispers. “You understand that it’s you? That there’s a flaw in your mind. In your very being. There’s a wrongness about you that makes you broken. Unlovable—in fact. You understand that, yes, Harry?”

Harry looks away and his body begins to shake with violent, unpredictable tremors.

“And still, you make it worse,” Jude continues. “With your drink. With your thoughts. I wonder why? Do you delight in hurting yourself?”

“I don’t—”

“But you know deep down that you deserve punishment. You got your parents killed. You killed your godfather, your father’s friend. Even Dumbledore died because of you. It’s like you are tainted, isn’t it? By Death. Isn’t that wonderfully ironic?”

“Stop.”

“You don’t deserve him. You know that. You’ve always known that. He was a Death Eater—a snob, a shitty, cruel little boy—and still you don’t deserve him. What does that say about you, Harry?”

“What are you doing to me? I can’t _think_ …” Harry’s has a whole-body shudder, and he heaves a dry, echoing sob. His skin is pale, his breaths erratic.

He is so wonderfully close to coming home.

Jude leans in even closer, and reaches out to trace the shape of Harry’s abdomen with his palm. He maps the firm muscles with his fingers, samples tender flesh, delectates in the feel of hair so fine and soft like dew on a morning breath.

Jude smiles. “You know that no matter what you had done, he would have left you, don’t you?”

Harry shudders again, his shoulders slumping forward. “I know that,” he whispers.

“He would have left you because you are, quite frankly, unbearable to love.”

Harry closes his eyes briefly and then he nods. "I am."

Jude leans forward, cups his cheek, licks tears from where they've gathered in his beard. “You destroy yourself, Harry. Nobody wants anything that’s destroyed. Broken. Not even Draco.”

Harry jerks unsteadily and makes a quiet, almost moaning sound. Jude holds him still with a thought, and Harry cries out softly.

“Don’t do that, please. Don’t force me. I won’t move again.”

“I don’t trust you,” Jude says thoughtfully. “Just as Draco didn’t trust you.”

 _“Stop talking about him_.”

“He knew you would have broken him.” Jude leans forward and Harry whimpers as he gently nibbles Harry’s jaw, licks a cool swath along Harry’s pulse.

Oh, but his skin is hot and bursting with life. Jude has never tasted anything quite like it. He’d never truly known yearning, never understood pure _intoxication_ until now.

“And you did, Harry. Time and time again. You broke him. Do you know why?”

Jude leans close enough to Harry’s face so that they are almost mouth to mouth and Harry shivers. His harsh breaths brush across Jude’s lips, and he breathes them in.

“Because…” Harry takes a shallow, unsteady breath. “Because I break everything I touch.”

“That’s right, Harry. And now you’ve broken the one person you loved the most. How does that make you feel?”

“Like I want to…” Harry licks his lips, his gaze hazy and unfocused. “Like I should…"

Jude takes a deep breath, deftly licks the shape of Harry’s lower lip, briefly nibbles the flesh. “Finish it,” he says against Harry’s full lips.

“ _Disappear_.”

Jude kisses him, and though unplanned—unforeseen, it is perhaps the most deliberate thing he has ever done. Harry tastes like life, like Jude’s exact opposite, his perfect complement, his other half.

Jude swipes his tongue across Harry’s, lets his palms drift across Harry’s broad chest, then lower, to the taut muscles of his abdomen, lower still. Harry gasps and tries to break the kiss.

Jude pulls away. “Disappear with me, Harry.”

“Why are you doing this?” he whimpers, tears a constant stream on his face.

Jude gently wipes them away with his fingertips, then licks them with his tongue, closes his eyes in a brief burst of ecstasy. There’s a deep stirring at the base of his belly, he grows hard between his thighs. “Because I want you to be mine.”

With just the stirring of a thought _—_ one not yet complete, a knife appears beside him on the table.

“Ah, perfect,” Jude says, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. It is a _Sujihiki_ , sharp as hell and gleaming a deadly silver.

“Take it, Harry. You know you want to. You always have. It will be easy. It’s what everyone wants. It’s what _you_ want. Isn’t it?”

Harry glances at the knife, licks his lips, and says, “Will it hurt?”

“Only for a moment.”

Harry takes the knife. His hands move stiffly, but surely as he drags it all the way up the inside of one forearm, slicing easily through skin and flesh and muscle and tendon.

And, oh the blood. Thick and pungent and fresh and _flowing._ His blood is a river.

Harry locks eyes with Jude, and Jude smiles. “You have to help me with the other,” Harry murmurs.

“Of course I will, my love. Of course.”

Jude holds Harry's hand steady as he slices through his flesh, and gently lowers him to the floor when he loses the strength to sit up.

But something happens then that even Jude could not have predicted. The same ridiculous, inhumanly strong presence—power, whatever the _fuck_ it was—yanks him away from what is his.

_His._

And then _She_ comes, summoning him home with a sheer force that almost rips him from this plane entirely.

“No! No! _But, he’s mine_! Why won’t you let me have him?”

And then, as he is being compelled to leave behind what is rightfully his—what was _destined_ to be his—a doorbell rings.

 

**Part IV**

 

He’s already narked because he has to use the front door like a stranger, because he has to bang on the heavy oak with Harry’s hideous lionhead door knocker, because he has to ring the doorbell and act as though this isn’t his bloody house, too, _(once)_ because he doesn’t have a sodding key, because he’s a Wizard for goodness sake, because he doesn’t want to use magic and walk in on Harry—

( _Fucking someone else?)_

—drunk on the floor, in a puddle of his own vomit as he had found him before. More than once. Because he didn’t tell anyone. Because he was afraid he was making too big a deal, or he was afraid that Harry would push him away, that Harry would—and this makes the least sense of all—somehow blame Draco. For his need to drink. His desire to escape.

( _Was it Draco’s fault?)_

But no one has seen Harry in weeks, and Harry doesn’t answer owls, and Harry’s closed his Floo ( _and wasn’t there a time Draco had thought that even if Harry had shut out everyone else in the world, as he had a habit of doing whenever he was down, that he would have never had done it to him_ ) and everyone is worried, and Granger had said it would be best if Draco was the one to check on him.

Apart from all this, there’s the inconvenient fact that Draco is still completely in love with the sod, that he misses him more than he’d ever missed anyone or anything in his life. That he begins and ends each day with a ridiculous longing for Harry to simply be there, beside him, breathing his heavy breaths and radiating heat and magic even in his sleep. That he wants to take it all back, that he wants to return home and forget he ever left, and pretend that Harry never _let_ him leave, and convince himself (again) that everything will be fine.

_Everything will be fine._

“Answer the bloody door, you absolute wanker,” he murmurs beneath his breath.

He pulls out his wand, casts a Dark spell that breaks Harry’s wards only a fraction apart so that he can slide in between the cracks, then he casts an unlocking charm and walks into his very own worst nightmare.

For the view of the kitchen is straight on from the doorway, and Harry is slumped against a wall, his arms a mess of blood and torn flesh, a knife discarded on the floor beside him and there’s an air of Death so pungent that Draco could swear he was alive and in this room right beside him, watching Draco fall to fucking pieces. The horror inside Draco’s chest digs so deep that his breath stops.

And so does time.

In one moment, Draco is doubled over in the hallway, struggling to match the vision before him with any sense of reality; the next he is beside Harry, casting a Reviving Charm, not caring that bringing Harry back to consciousness will bring him back to pain, not caring that Harry has probably already lost too much blood, that he is probably—

There’s so much blood, and it’s thick and viscous. It’s been too long. He is too late.

All the clocks have stopped.

“Harry.” Draco’s voice is broken, ragged, as though he has been choked within an inch of his life—as though he has been screaming for hours.

_A pulse._

Faint. So faint that maybe he’s made it up. Maybe it isn’t real. Maybe Harry’s already dead. Maybe—

Bright green eyes flutter open, and Harry coughs and says his name, and Draco breathes again—a deep shuddering breath that resets his heart, and time begins once more.

“Yes. Yes, it’s me, Harry hold on, we'll get Weasley. We’ll find someone. Just don’t—" Draco fumbles for his wand and Summons a Patronus, sending it to everyone, anyone, all at once. “Someone will come. You’ll be all right, Harry.” Draco’s trembling hands hover uselessly over Harry’s crumpled form. “Why? Why would you do this? Don’t you know I can’t—?”

He is not making any sense, and Harry looks at him with only a vague sort of recognition. His face is so pale, Draco can feel him slipping slowly, and deliberately away.

“Draco,” he says faintly. “I… I’ve always... _always_ …”

“I know,” Draco pats his cheek. “Harry, I know.” A sob escapes him, only to be followed by another. Draco struggles to catch his breath, but he can’t find it. There’s _so much_ blood. “Why didn’t you _call_ me. I would’ve come. You didn’t have to do this. Why would you do this?”

“...sorry.”

Draco cups Harry’s face in his palms, kisses Harry’s mouth so briefly it’s almost as if doesn’t happen at all. “I love you, Potter.”

Harry’s body goes limp but there’s still a pulse.

There’s still a pulse.

There’s still a pulse.

_Oh someone, please come. Please come. Please come. Oh please._

The beat slows, just as time, just as Draco’s mind begins to fold in on itself. Like the edges of burning parchment, it becomes blackened and frail.

“Don’t you dare leave. Don’t you dare do this to me.” He slaps Harry’s cheek with a bloody palm and tries to breathe.

“ _Harry?”_

_fin_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://kedavranox.tumblr.com)! ❤


End file.
